


Pride and Prejudice

by writeitininkorinblood



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: Bad Pick-Up Lines, Cults, F/F, First Date, M/M, Modern AU, Pride, Religion, honestly just the worst
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:27:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26563585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeitininkorinblood/pseuds/writeitininkorinblood
Summary: Gawain volunteers at the Pride parade every year specifically to scare homophobic protesters away with bad pickup lines, but his year there's a new protester who the tactic doesn't work on quite so well and he's really rather intriguing...
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Nimue/Pym
Comments: 16
Kudos: 122





	1. Chapter 1

The first year Gawain had volunteered at Pride, he’d underestimated quite how long it would take him to get to the meeting point and he’d turned up late. Not late enough that he couldn’t get involved, but all the desirable jobs had been taken and the tired-looking supervisor who’d probably been there for hours looked sympathetic as she explained where he’d be spending his day. Once he got there, he understood why.

There was a fenced off area specifically for anti-Pride protesters. Gawain listened numbly as the supervisor explained that unfortunately their protests were completely legal and they couldn’t have them removed, but they could cordon them in one area so they didn’t block the parade route or cause too much disruption. And it was Gawain’s job to ensure that nothing got out of hand and he was, under no circumstances, allowed to argue with them, regardless of how homophobic they got. The not arguing part was going to be difficult but, as Gawain watched the protesters set up their banners, he knew he’d find a way to make them leave anyway.

That had been four years ago and Gawain had volunteered at every Pride parade since, and he never once turned up on time. Because he’d found the perfect way to make the protesters as uncomfortable as possible, often to the point where a large number of them would just give up and go home, and he liked the idea that he was reducing the amount of anti-gay sentiment the people in the parade had to see, especially those experiencing the day for the first time.

It turned out, funnily enough, that homophobic assholes _really_ didn’t like it when blatantly queer men flirted with them. Gawain would memorise every terrible pick up line he heard, the kind he’d never use for real and that straight teenage boys probably thought girls loved to hear. As soon as he got to his volunteer post every year, he’d sidle up to the first protesters to arrive and put on a low, salacious drawl and come out with something inappropriate like ‘those hands look bored, I’ve got something they can work on’ or ‘apart from being sexy, what do you do for a living?’

There was certainly no intention behind any of the flirting – these men, and they were almost always men, were usually middle-aged and far from Gawain’s type, and he’d never normally approve of making people uncomfortable like that, but it was such an effective strategy that he was going to give himself a pass just for one day a year.

The fourth time he volunteered was set up to be no different. It was the first time he’d had Squirrel to think about but Nimue and Pym were going to be out for Pride anyway, watching the parade and the performances in Trafalgar Square, so Gawain was happy to let them babysit for the day. When he’d left that morning their whole house has been a mess of glitter and face paint and Squirrel had been trying to argue that he should be allowed to cover his entire arms and legs in the rainbow paint. Hopefully Nimue and Pym were still speaking to Gawain after they had to endure the boy for the whole day.

Gawain had turned up and requested his usual post, something no one else ever did. It was a different supervisor from the previous years and she looked so surprised to hear him specifically ask for it that she started to explain to him exactly what it entailed, but he assured her he knew and reiterated his request. Seemingly glad to get rid of the position, she didn’t argue any further.

There were the usual small group of protesters setting up when Gawain got to his normal corner, having changed into his volunteer shirt, and he was ready to get a head start on turfing them out when a new group walked up. There were five or six of them, all seemingly from some religious organisation from the glimpses Gawain caught of their signs, but he was mostly distracted by the man at the back. Despite the heat of the day he was dressed head to toe in black, as if to purposefully avoid any colour of the rainbow, and Gawain would have found it incredibly sad if the man didn’t look so gorgeous in those jeans and that tight-fitting jacket. Flirting with him was certainly not going to be a chore.

Like he could feel Gawain staring, the man looked up and it turned out his eyes were even more attractive than his ass. They were bright blue and seemed entirely lost, catching on everything but not lingering for more than a moment, as if it was all too much to take in. Underneath those eyes each cheek was stained with a dark mark that seemed to resemble tears, gracefully and silently tracking down his face. At first Gawain wondered if it was makeup, some kind of ridiculous protest notion that Jesus was weeping for their homosexual sins, but the marks didn’t seem smudged and were perfectly matte against his skin. They were birthmarks, he guessed, and they made the man’s bright eyes so vibrant by comparison that he could have stared at them for hours. Until an older man, grey hair and beard and eyes that could have been kind but chose to be cruel, put his hand on the shoulder of the man with the birthmarks and drew his attention away, offering Gawain a sneer of disgust as he did so. Gawain just returned a cheery wave, suppressing his desire to raise his middle finger.

It was time to kill some homophobes with some over-kindness.

Gawain couldn’t help himself from approaching the man with the intriguing birthmarks. He told himself it was just because he had found a space in the corner of the roped off area and was easy to get to, but he was just lying to himself. He’d picked the man because he never got to flirt with people he was actually interested in anymore. Looking after Squirrel had turned out to be a full time commitment and, while Gawain didn’t regret it, it did mean that it had been almost a year since he’d gone to a club or a bar and left with new company. Not that this man was likely to go home with him, since he was holding a sign that read ‘God Loves You But Not Your Sins’, but Gawain wanted to indulge himself for once.

The man seemed to be searching intently in his bag for something, crouched down and really doing those jeans justice. Gawain couldn’t help but grin as he leaned on the barrier and drank in the view appreciatively.

‘Those clothes would look great in a crumpled heap on my bedroom floor,” he purred, surprising the man so much that he toppled over.

Staring up at him from the floor beside his bag, there was certainly anger in his face, along with a healthy dose of awkwardness, but his cheeks seemed to flush just a little and Gawain smirked. Perfect.

“My name’s Gawain... remember that, in case you end up screaming it later,” he winked.

The protester’s cheeks were definitely flushed now, and Gawain was certainly going to consider that a win, but he didn’t seem to have a lot to say. Usually there would be some kind of intense verbal reaction, yelling insults or preaching, but this man just stared, as if he was trying to look through Gawain’s skin. He definitely didn’t look any closer to packing up his things and moving on, and Gawain had a feeling he’d be more difficult to intimidate with chat up lines than most, so he offered up another wink before moving on to someone else who’d be easier to rile up. He’d be back for the man with the tight jeans and the blue eyes later.

Gawain spent much of his morning alternating between enjoying the parade as it went past and picking off homophobic protesters and antagonising them with queer attention until they had had enough. He’d honed his technique over the years and with a good ten to fifteen minutes of effort per person, he had a four out of five chance of success. He’d cut the small gathering of homophobes down by half after a couple of hours, with such classics as ‘sorry, do you work at a post office? Only I thought I saw you checking out my package’ and ‘are you a light switch, because you really turn me on’. His favourite chat up lines, however, he reserved for the moments he let himself return to the attractive man.

There was really no benefit to continuing to talk to him, considering once he had cottoned on to Gawain’s modi operandus he was entirely stoic-faced every time, refusing to get angry or shout back. Only his cheeks kept getting red, with a beautiful blush that spread down his neck with the more indecent phrases, and he was pretty sure it was from something other than anger. So Gawain couldn’t stop from circling back to murmur gentle suggestions along the lines of ‘you’re on my list of things to do tonight’, and ‘are you a poster? Because I want to pin you to a wall’. Usually they’d be coloured with comic levels of heavy insinuation, but when it came to this man he toned it down and was slightly more real. He couldn’t help but be fascinated by now pretty this man looked when blushed, even though he knew closeted men were never good people to get involved with. Especially when that repression had manifested itself as religious zealotry and damaging homophobia. _But those eyes_.

It was around lunchtime when the man seemed to take a break from holding his sign with terrifying dispassion, leaning against the far side of the barrier to eat a salad. It was wonderfully mundane and, without the sign that denounced his sexual orientation as sin, Gawain found it so much more difficult to remember why he wasn’t supposed to be actually coming on to the man. So, when he looked up and made eye contact, Gawain lifted his index finger and crooked it flirtatiously, without really thinking it through. He was even more surprised when the stranger put down his salad and walked over, even if he did bring his sign presumably, Gawain could only guess, to use as some kind of shield against awful pick up lines.

Gawain was delighted, more than anything, and he was grinning when the man raised an eyebrow, questioning why he’d been summoned from his lunch.

“I made you come with one finger,” Gawain whispered, “imagine what I could do with my whole hand.”

It was the deepest he’d made the man blush all day and he opened his mouth as if finally about to talk, when his eyes suddenly focused on something behind Gawain’s shoulder, confused and a little concerned. Rather than a retort, the words on his tongue turned to a warning but he didn’t manage a syllable before he was shut down.

Gawain could already hear the frantic patter of footsteps behind him, smiling and holding up a finger again, this time to stop the attractive stranger in as he braced himself for the impact he knew was coming. And it did, seconds later, Squirrel collided with his back and scrambled up like a cat. A very heavy, bony cat, determined on climbing up to sit on his shoulders.

“You’re getting too old for this,” Gawain said, trying to suppress a groan when Squirrel accidentally kicked him in the ribs.

The boy was ten and usually would be first in line to argue how grown up and trustworthy he was, except, apparently, when it came to the matter of using Gawain as a climbing frame.

‘No I’m not!” he protested, grabbing on to Gawain’s hair so he could lean far too far forward and see his face.

“Okay,” Gawain laughed, “then I’m getting too old for this.”

He turned to see Nimue and Pym laughing from a few dozen yards away, both decked out in every rainbow from their wardrobes and, Gawain was sure, at least one top from his own but he’d talk to Nimue about borrowing his things without asking later. He reached up to pull Squirrel off his shoulders, ducking his head so he could get the child down before he could do any serious damage to his back. In response to the vehement complaints he got when he went to put Squirrel down on the floor, he settled the kid on his hip as a compromise. It was then Squirrel noticed the protester, the strange birthmarks no doubt catching his eye.

“Who’s he?” he asked, trying to whisper but failing miserably.

Gawain contemplated how to explain. The truth was complicated and messy and he wasn’t even sure the stranger could answer it truthfully. One day it would become necessary to sit Squirrel down and admit that some people still thought it was wrong to be gay and that they yelled and spat and threw things to show their disapproval. Gawain had endured it all over the years, but he didn’t want to tell the boy about it on Pride, of all days.

The church man had found the decency to turn his protest sign around, hiding the message of hate against the barrier so Squirrel couldn’t see it and, if that was purposeful, Gawain was appreciative. Squirrel was too young to know who he was attracted to but Gawain didn’t care either way, he just wanted him to grow up in a world where he knew it was okay to be himself. So explaining that this man was technically a homophobic protester was off the table, and Gawain couldn’t come up with a lie quick enough to cover his tracks. Instead, the man answered for him.

“Lancelot,” he said simply, with a small nod to the boy at Gawain’s side.

It was the first time Gawain had heard the name but _oh_ it suited him. There was something deep and noble about it that read in the way this man, this _Lancelot_ , carried himself. It was dignified. It was something Gawain wanted to murmur, wanted to moan. But he was getting miles ahead of himself.

Squirrel didn’t have any answer for Lancelot himself but instead leaned forward to give whispering another failed attempt, still loud even when his mouth was right next to Gawain’s ear.

“He’s pretty.”

Gawain’s face burned and, from the way Lancelot’s did too, it was clear the words had travelled. He was pretty. He was very pretty but he was also very clearly so far deep in the closet he was living in Narnia, which actually might account for how frigid he seemed. Squirrel’s attempts to fix Gawain up with a nice man weren’t new, but they weren’t usually quite as blatant. Lancelot at least had the decency to pretend he hadn’t heard, looking very pointedly anywhere else other than at Gawain.

“Don’t meddle,” Gawain mumbled back to Squirrel, far better at keeping his voice down.

He returned the child to his own two feet and ruffled his hair, steering him over to Pym and Nimue to put some distance between the boy and the protester.

“Making friends?” Nimue asked, nodding over at where the man was still watching him, expression indecipherable.

“Something like that,” Gawain shrugged, trying to look like he wasn’t so keen to stare back.

He took a quick lunch break, grateful for the fries Pym had insisted they bring him. If there was one day a year he didn’t feel bad eating junk food, Pride was that day. Listening indulgently to Squirrel tell him all about the morning and the people who had been complimenting their coordinating rainbow ensembles, Gawain tried to ignore the fact that the broody, attractive protester was still watching him. Maybe he had a thing for Nimue or Pym, he tried to reason, but considering Nimue’s hand was in the back pocket of Pym’s rainbow overalls, it would have been difficult to miss the fact they were together. And besides, when Gawain shifted, the man’s eyes followed him just as intently. It would have been a little creepy, if Gawain wasn’t just as interested in staring back.

Once he’d made Squirrel promise to behave until the end of his volunteer shift, Gawain packed him off with a surprisingly enthusiastic Pym and Nimue again and returned to his post. Cute man, _Lancelot_ , had seemingly finished his salad, but hadn’t picked up his sign again. Instead he just leaned against the barriers, still watching. His eyes seemed softer than before.

“Is he yours?” Lancelot asked, directing his words directly to Gawain for this first time that day.

His voice was low and almost unpractised, like he was never usually encouraged to speak. The fact that words had even come out of his mouth at all seemed to surprise him

“You really don’t know how this being gay thing works, do you?” Gawain laughed, just to tease. But when he gave the words a second thought, he shrugged. “But yeah, I guess he is mine now. I'm the best he's got.”

He didn’t go into detail. Technically he was still only fostering Squirrel, but so long as social services weren’t too put off by the fact a single gay man wanted to raise a child, in a house with his younger sister and her girlfriend, then maybe one day the boy would really be his. It was the least he could do.

“He seems like a good kid,” Lancelot offered, and Gawain just snorted.

“That’s because you’ve never had to convince him to turn off Fortnite and go to bed because it’s a school night,” he laughed.

“Fortnite?” Lancelot blinked, cocking his head like Gawain had spoken a word of a foreign language.

“Yeah, you know, Fortnite? The game. I admit I’ve never really played either, but you must have heard of it? Everyone’s heard of it.”

Lancelot just shook his head and Gawain wondered what kind of institution that older man from earlier had been running. He’d seemed like the one in charge. It had been easy to unsettle him and chase him off a few hours earlier with some choice innuendos, but he’d left Lancelot behind, something Gawain couldn’t help but think he might end up regretting.

“Don’t worry, I think it’s only a good game if you’re ten,” Gawain smiled, hoping he was being reassuring. He had a feeling reassurance wasn’t something Lancelot was extended often.

There seemed to be an unspoken, albeit shaky, understanding between them after that. Gawain still flirted mercilessly with the remaining protesters and as the afternoon went on, most of them seemed to leave – a mix of the queer man coming on to them, the heat of the sun and the long day getting too much, and the parade itself starting to draw to a close. But Lancelot stayed.  
Gawain still saved a few lines for him every now and then, and Lancelot started to react a little. The corner of his lips would quirk up at the funny ones, or his eyes would roll when they were particularly bad. He still blushed at every single one, and Gawain was certain he was queer and even dared to flatter himself that the man might actually be interested. He’d never been more disappointed to have the parade part of Pride start to come to an end. It wasn’t long before he caught sight of his little family again, waiting just down the road for him to finish up and check out with his supervisor. But he found himself not wanting to leave Lancelot for the last time.

Scrabbling around in his pockets he pulled out the map of the parade route all volunteers were given each year, and an old stub of a pencil. He tore a corner off the map and scribbled down his phone number, going over each digit several times to make sure it was legible. This seemed important. Then he added one last pick up line to the note for good measure, and folded it in half.

Besides Lancelot, there were now only two other protesters left in the designated area, both now packing up their things and not paying attention, so it seemed like they perfect moment to get away with something. He held out the piece of paper between two fingers and smiled teasingly when curiosity got the better of Lancelot and he, frowning, grabbed the note and read over it quickly.

“What are you doing?” he asked, staring down at the numbers and wondering who they would link him to if he called them. Some sort of helpline, maybe, where an overworked volunteer would condescend to him. Or maybe this was some kind of sick joke and it was some kind of explicit, gay phone sex line.

“I’m giving you my phone number,” Gawain said, like it was obvious.

Lancelot just panicked, as if the idea hadn’t even occurred to him, and he was suddenly looking around as if someone was going to be watching him disapprovingly. If it was the older man from before that was haunting his thoughts, Gawain was going to find him and send him a very angry letter and fill the envelope with glitter.

“Why?!” Lancelot hissed, voice unnecessarily hushed.

“So you can call me. Or text me, if you prefer,” Gawain shrugged, casually. “If you’d like to go out on a date then I’m all yours, but if you’d just like to talk then that’s fine too, no expectations or strings attached.”

He could be a friend, if that was what the other man needed. But he certainly wasn’t averse to being more than that. Lancelot was the first person in the year that had passed since he’d become Squirrel’s de facto father that he was intrigued by enough to consider taking Pym and Nimue up on their offer of babysitting so he could go out on a date. Everything from his eyes to his long, slender fingers, to the blush that so easily spread across his checks and down his neck drew Gawain in.

“Why are you doing this?” Lancelot asked, and when he looked up his eyes were so desperate, barely holding back tears.

“Because you don’t belong on that side of barrier and I think we both know it,” Gawain said, his voice low and his implication clear.

It was as close as either of them had come to verbalising the clear truth that Lancelot had been interested in Gawain all day and that, despite his allegiances with the homophobic protestors, he had more personal levels of self-hatred to deal with. And Gawain didn’t want him to have to do that alone but he couldn’t force Lancelot to accept help, so he was leaving the number and hoping to god Lancelot used it. In the meantime, Gawain had Pride to celebrate. Nimue, Pym and Squirrel were all still waiting. So he went to leave, before something else occurred to him and he turned back.

“Lancelot? I’m sorry about the pick-up lines. I’m not like that, not really. I just want the people in the parade, especially the younger ones, to see as few protesters as possible and I realised a few years back that hitting on homophobes is the easiest way to get them to go away, because I’m not actually allowed to argue with you,” he explained apologetically.

He seemed so incredibly genuine that Lancelot just nodded, unable to say anything as he watched the strange, beautiful, terrifying man walk away.

Gawain grinned as he got close to his friends, their rainbow face paint and glitter now a smudged mess on their cheeks and arms. Clearly they’d been having a good day.

“Did you just give that guy your phone number?” Nimue asked, convinced she was seeing things. They’d been begging Gawain to put himself out there and pursue a romantic interest, but choosing an anti-gay protestor wasn’t what they’d had in mind.

“None of your business,” he said cheerfully.

He took Squirrel’s hand that Pym wasn’t already holding so they could swing him between them and forced himself to walk away without looking back. If Lancelot didn’t contact him, then there was nothing he could do about it. The ball was in the other man’s court and he just had to hope he had made enough of an impact to encourage a repeat encounter.

Lancelot screwed the paper up in his fist, ready to throw it in the nearest bin because it wasn’t allowed, he couldn’t think that way. He didn’t even have a phone, or any money to use a payphone. But he watched as Gawain returned to his friends and interacted with them so naturally. Lancelot didn’t know what it was like to feel at home with other people like that.

He looked at the scrap of paper in his hand and carefully flattened it back out. Gawain’s number stared back at him with one sentence underneath, one far more gentle and unassuming that some of the things Gawain had been saying to him: _when I’m around you, it’s hard to think straight._

The paper was carefully slipped between the pages of the bible Lancelot kept in his pocket, where it would be safe and hidden from Carden’s scrupulous eyes. He would find a phone; beg, steal or borrow one. He just needed to see Gawain again.


	2. Chapter 2

Lancelot couldn’t find a phone. He knew there were always some circulating Red House, that the less chaste disciples would use them to view impure images, or the newest recruits would call parents when they got homesick, but all of that was kept away from him. Everyone was well-aware he was Father Carden’s favourite, that he called him the Weeping One, marked with the physical manifestation of his compassion for the suffering of Christ and those who fall from grace by refusing to follow his examples. None of the others would have trusted him not to take any information about contraband straight to Father.

And he would have. A week ago, he would have reported it immediately without a single thought about making use of it himself, but he was desperate to get in touch with Gawain and he couldn’t think of any viable way to do it. Even if he could find a Brother willing to lend him an illicit phone, he’d be terrified to type Gawain’s number in it. What if someone saw it in the recent logs and called him back, or if Father knew about the phones and was keeping an eye on the activity on them? It was too risky.

If he couldn’t use a phone inside Red House, the only other option was to find one when he was out. It wasn’t often that he got to go out unsupervised. Usually their excursions were protests, at Pride or climate change rallies or sexual health clinics that gave out free contraception; there was power in numbers so he was never alone when they went out with placards. The one time Red Brothers went out on their own was when they were spreading the Word, handing out leaflets and speaking to as many members of the public as would stop to listen. They could cover more ground and reach more people if they split up, so they’d each be given a stack of leaflets and would only be allowed back once they’d distributed them all.

It was Lancelot’s least favourite activity. He hated having to talk to strangers; all they did was ignore him, their eyes passing right over him as if he wasn’t even there. He wasn’t good at getting their attention or persuading them to take leaflets, or dealing with the people who shouted abuse at him or spat at his feet. More than once he’d been guilty of dropping the last of his leaflets into a bin so he could get home earlier – he knew that was where they were all ending up anyway, once people read them and realised what they’d taken. Most people threw them away in front of him as it was, so he was only skipping a step. Still, he would confess the sin each time and accept the self-punishment he was handed down as penance. Each time he considered abandoning his public outreach, he’d remember the time spent on his knees in prayer and how they ached, or the whip upon his back leaving marks that burned for days. It was rare he chose that over a few hours of being humiliated and mocked by strangers.

If he wasn’t going to be able to find access to a phone inside Red House, it would have to wait until he was next sent leafleting. As he if knew Lancelot was desperate for the opportunity to call the number he still kept sandwiched between the pages of his bible, Father Carden didn’t send him out for three weeks. With each day Lancelot grew more and more worried that Gawain would have forgotten him, and more and more worried he was forgetting Gawain. Each night he carefully traced the lines of the man’s face in his mind, conjuring up his image but losing his grip on it every time. He was forgetting the details and he couldn’t bear it – Gawain was the one light in his life. The one person who has seen through his armour-like façade and not turned away. It felt like even God had forsaken him, but Gawain had been persistent and bright and bold. He would do anything to hear that low, teasing voice murmur one more cliché chat-up line.

Eventually, his name was down to go out leafleting again. He accepted the usual bundle of flyers with his heart in his mouth, hoping his anticipation didn’t read on his face. Passing through the oft-locked doors and out into the world for the first time since Pride, he gritted his teeth with anticipation. He had to find a phone booth.

The first step was to get further away from Red House, and from where any of his Brothers could see him. If he got caught before he could even talk to Gawain then he wouldn’t be allowed out again for months and the other man surely would have forgotten him by then. The simplest way to make sure his path didn’t cross with one of the other men sent out with leaflets was to go to the area that had been designated to him for the day, so he started the hike over to Leicester Square. It was rather a long walk, but public transport was off limits by Father’s orders, and Lancelot was half hoping the exercise would clear his head and he would have forgotten any foolish notions of calling Gawain by the time he got there, but instead it was all he could think about for the journey. Each step took him closer to the reality of being able to hear his voice again, and it was sinfully enticing just to consider it.

When he got to the area he’d been assigned, he scanned the street for one of the iconic red phone boxes he recognised but had never been in. He’d never even really registered their presence, not having anyone to call, but he knew there had to be one somewhere near. And sure enough, there was. It was being ignored by almost everyone else as much as it usually was by Lancelot himself and he knew he was going to get strange looks from other people by actually using it for its intended purpose, rather than as a backdrop for a photograph. He hovered impatiently nearby as two girls finished their modelling session and, as soon as they walked away, he rushed forward and hid himself inside. It would usually be a difficult thing to do in a glass box, but much of the window space was covered in pasted bills and posters, keeping the light out and shielding him from the people outside. The first thing he was hit with was the acrid smell of urine, pungent enough to make him gag. It was clear that even if people weren’t using the phone box to make phone calls, they were still finding alternative uses for the space. He had to force himself to stay inside and endure the smell, desperate for the chance to speak to Gawain again.

It was only once Lancelot looked around the phone box, searching for instructions on how to operate the receiver, that he realised what all the bills posted up around him were. Each and every one was a scantily clad woman, if she wore any clothes at all, posing suggestively above a phone number. Lancelot’s cheeks flushed bright red and he couldn’t help the Hail Mary that began to fall from his lips. He wasn’t attracted to the images, which should perhaps scare him more than it did, but the Red Brothers had been lectured time and time again about the evil of pornography and to surround himself with it like that felt so wrong it made his skin crawl.

He wondered absentmindedly if this was part of his punishment – the foul smell and the posters. Maybe this was the will of god making itself known, discouraging him from contacting Gawain. But Lancelot just gritted his teeth. He wasn’t going anywhere until he had heard Gawain’s voice.

Taking his bible out of his pocket, he thumbed through the well-worn pages until the spine fell open to Lancelot’s favourite passage in Luke, where Gawain’s phone number was pressed safely between the verses. Picking up the scrap of paper gently, like it was sacred, he realised his hands were shaking but there was nothing to be done about it. It was anxiety and excitement and desperation, and it wasn’t going to go away until he finally spoke to Gawain.

It was then that Lancelot finally turned himself to the phone affixed to the one solid wall of the box, ready to key in the numbers. Only one glaring issue immediately presented itself to him – the sign affixed beside the phone that laid out the cost for each call.

Lancelot’s heart dropped out his chest. Of course he needed money. It should have occurred to him that it wouldn’t be free, that nothing was that easy, that he didn’t deserve the tiny moment of happiness that hearing Gawain’s voice again would bring him. Fighting back the urge to cry, he fled the cramped phone booth and rushed to the nearest bench to sit with his head in his hands, cringing under the weight of the stares of strangers. Gawain’s phone number was crushed in his hands and as soon as Lancelot realised he was doing it he quickly smoothed it out again and pressed it between the bible pages again.

Every sign was telling him to give up, that this wasn’t something he should be doing, but Lancelot was too far in to stop. He understood how people spiralled into sin now, ignoring each and every divine warning. Clearly he was going to need money to make the phone call, and Father was never going to give him any. He was going to need to get some another way, and it didn’t need to be much. A handful of coins would be enough for a short conversation. And people dropped coins all the time.

Lancelot couldn’t even find it in him to feel sorry for himself as he stalked the streets of central London, eyes fixed to the ground in search of forgotten pennies. The leaflets that he was supposed to be handing out were tucked under his arm, long forgotten. It took three hours of his hunt before he’d collected only 27 pence and he could feel himself losing hope. Eventually Father was going to get suspicious that he was taking so long, and he didn’t want anyone coming to drag him away so he’d lose the progress he’d made with his collecting. He ended up in Trafalgar Square, sitting forlornly on the steps as he took a break, and recounted the small number of grubby coins he had in his palm, as if they could have suddenly multiplied. It wasn’t enough.

Climbing to his feet, ready to start his hunt again, Lancelot’s eye was drawn to someone stood at the side of one of the Trafalgar Square fountains, flipping a coin into the water, and he felt a wave of hope. Those fountains were full of coins, and one handful would be enough to let him contact Gawain. Only those coins had been thrown there on purpose, with intention and with the hope of getting a wish in return, and to take them felt far more like stealing rather than simply rescuing abandoned change from the gutters. He wasn’t sure if he could do that. The girl, the redhead, who he’d watched toss the coin into the fountain, didn’t expect her coin to be taken by someone else.

The redhead.

He knew that girl.

Pride had been weeks ago but it was seared so intensely on his brain that he still remembered her face, even as briefly as he’d seen it. She’d been one of Gawain’s friends, one of the two girls who had brought the child to visit him, which means she knew him Gawain. At the very least, she might be able to get a message to him.

Trafalgar Square was busy with tourists and the girl was walking away through the masses. Lancelot knew he had to move fast or risk losing her, and he launched himself down the stairs to follow her. Not knowing her name or who she was to Gawain, he has no idea what to shout to get her attention so he wove his way through the crowd as quickly as he could, sparing little thought for the people he elbowed as he did. Eventually he managed to catch up to the girl and dart in front of her, skidding to a stop and angering the people behind her as they immediately caused a pile up.

“Gawain!” he insisted, because he hadn’t thought this through and he didn’t even know how to begin explaining.

“No... Pym,” the girl said slowly, regarding him sceptically. “Do I know you?”

The fact that she hasn’t run off at having a name that was not her own shouted in her face was probably a good sign to indicate that she was who Lancelot thought she was, so he committed her name to memory.

“No, you don’t know me,” he admitted, suddenly withdrawn again now he’d burned through the adrenaline at seeing a lifetime.

“Does Gawain?” Pym tried instead, still confused. Then she registered the birthmarks and seemed to remember. “Oh. You’re that guy, that protester.”

And then she hit him hard in the shoulder.

“Ow,” he complained.

For someone so small she could inflict a surprisingly amount of pain and he rubbed at the now aching muscle with his palm.

“That’s for being a homophobic asshole,” she declared, and then she hit him again on the opposite arm, making effective contact with her knuckles. “And that’s for getting Gawain’s hopes up.”

Lancelot vaguely wondered if this counted as physical abuse and he took a half step back to try and distance himself from any other attacks she might launch. The first one he certainly knew he deserved, but the second wasn’t his fault.

“I wanted to call him,” he explained quietly, his cheeks blushing to admit it. “I don’t have a phone. Or any money.”

“Oh.” Pym’s face softened a little. “You upset him. He never gives his number out like that anymore.”

That sparked emotions in Lancelot’s chest that he didn’t know how to explain, all too complicated and caught up in each other. He hated the idea of having upset him, but the notion that he was the first person Gawain had given his phone number to in a long time made him feel inexplicably warm and protective.

“I want to see him,” he insisted, his desperation clear.

Pym looked at her watch and frowned.

“He’s at work, ” she explained gently, but when she saw how much this man’s face fell at the news, she continued. “He’ll be done in an hour, how long do you have?”

Lancelot looked at the bundle of leaflets in his hand. He was already late back, but he’d come this far and he wanted to see this through. He had to. There was only so much penance he could be given at confession, surely, so he may as well exhaust the possibilities of his rebellion to make it worth the pain of his punishment.

“I have an hour,” he decided resolutely.

Really he should have been suspicious about how gleeful she looked about his words, but she was his one way of reaching Gawain so even if she was a little crazy, he had to trust her. She led him through the crowds to a Tube station and as soon as Lancelot realised where they were heading, he froze, angering yet more commuters.

“What?” Pym asked. “I’ll pay for you, it’s okay.”

“No, I just…” Lancelot struggled.

He’d never been on a train before, never been on any kind of public transport. It was forbidden.

“Can we walk?” he asked.

“Not if we don’t want to be late and miss Gawain,” Pym explained. “It’s the other side of the city. What’s wrong?”  
“I’ve never…”

Pym looked from the tube to Lancelot and then down at her watch. Clearly working through whatever trauma he’d experienced was going to take a while, but they could at least make a start. She dragged him to the nearest bench and sat him down.

“We have ten minutes. Talk,” she demanded.

“About?” Lancelot was baffled.

“About why you’ve never been on the Tube. Why you were protesting at Pride despite the fact you’re clearly as queer as I am if you want to see Gawain so badly. Why you’re, what, twenty five?” she guessed, and Lancelot just nodded.

In truth he had no idea when his birthday was or how many of them he should have had. They didn’t celebrate things like that at Red House, but Pym was scary so he just agreed.

“Okay, twenty five, and you have no money and no phone. What gives?”

It seemed like Lancelot was going to get to give his usual spiel to the public after all. He launched into the little speech he’d been taught to give about Red House, explaining their commitment to god and to earning their salvation, and trying to convince others to see the light. Pym listened to it with a blank expression, waiting until he was done and, after a few moments of silence, shaking her head.

“Try again,” she said.

“I don’t understand.”  
“It’s a cult, right?”

Lancelot flinched. Father Carden hated the word cult; they were never allowed to use it. But Pym saw the reaction and knew she was on the right track, and she suddenly got very serious.

“Do you they hurt you?” she asked.

“No more than we deserve,” Lancelot promised, not wanting her to think Father cruel. But her eyes just went wide with horror.

“And what do you deserve?”  
“It is never more than we sin,” he said reassuringly.

Pym knew she should ask more questions, try to get to the bottom of exactly what he’d experienced, but she felt far too out of her depth and she had no idea what to say. Her eyes were prickling with tears as she reached for his hand and squeezed it tight, hoping the action conveyed the words she didn’t know how to articulate.

“Okay,” she decided. “Let’s get you to Gawain.”  
He’d know what to do, and the very mention of his name had Lancelot’s face lighting up so she knew she was making the right decision.

Lancelot was both baffled and terrified by the London Underground. Pym had bought him a ticket and they’d headed down the escalator, something which also seemed novel to him, to find a bustling platform. Rush hour really wasn’t the ideal first time to introduce the man to the Tube, but she had faith he could survive the trial by fire.

If he’d looked awkward on a platform surrounded by people, he looked even more uncomfortable to find himself packed onto a train, clutching a pole, as the train started to move. Seeing the fear in his eyes, Pym leapt to take his mind off it.

“Anything you want to know about Gawain?” she asked, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

 _Everything_ , Lancelot wanted to say. But he tried to mitigate his intrigue.

“The boy, his… son?” he asked, because he’d never gotten a proper answer as to who the child at Pride was.

“Oh, Squirrel? Kind of son, I guess. Gawain’s known him all his life, we all have, and his mother died just over a year ago. The kid didn’t have anyone else to go to, so Gawain took him in and it’s safe to say he’s never leaving. Gawain’s fostering him for now, but he’s trying to adopt him and make it permanent,” Pym smiled. “He lives with us, with Gawain, Nimue and I.”

“You’re all friends?”  
“Gawain and Nimue are basically siblings, since Nimue’s mother raised them both, and Nimue and I have been dating since we were kids. We joke he’s my brother-in-law already,” she laughed, a tinge of blush on her cheeks. “Not that Nim and I are engaged.”

Lancelot nodded slowly, taking it in. There seemed to be a camaraderie there that he’d never known himself. The Red Brothers were brothers in name only. It had never seemed much like a family to him, what with his position always on the periphery of everything thanks to his status as Father’s favourite.

He listened as Pym continued to tell him about Gawain, pulling out random tales from the archives of her memory in the hopes of making Lancelot laugh. Mostly all she succeeded in drawing from him were occasional smiles, but she was still counting those as wins because it really didn’t seem like he smiled often, and he definitely no longer looked concerned about the train. By the time they made it to their stop, he seemed almost disappointed the journey was over, if it meant the stories were too, but she promised him more another time.

It would have been arguably sensible for Pym to message Gawain and pre-warn him she’d be ambushing him after work with a surprise guest, but there was little fun in that so she positioned them both where they could see the doors to the office of his environmental law firm and scanned the stream of people leaving. Eventually, she caught sight of him amongst the throng, already pulling his hair down out of the neat bun he kept it in at work as soon as he was out the door.

“Hey, nerd!” she yelled to catch his attention, waving.

Gawain automatically looked up at the noise and furrowed his brown in confusion when he saw who had shouted.

“Pym? What are you doing here?” he asked, ducking out of the flow of traffic heading for the station.

“I brought you a present,” she grinned, stepping aside to reveal a very anxious, but familiar, face.

“Lancelot,” Gawain blinked, stunned.

The Pride protestor was the last person he’d expected to greet him outside his work, and Gawain didn’t know what to say. He’d made his peace with the fact that Lancelot had been too deep in the closet, too supressed by his own self-hatred, to use the phone number he’d given. Or perhaps he just hadn’t been attracted to him. Either way, Lancelot had never called and Gawain had been trying to forget the man with those beautiful eyes. And now here he was.

Lancelot didn’t know what to do. He’d been desperate to hear Gawain’s voice, but seeing him was something else. This was the one man who had offered him a lifeline and shown him compassion when he didn’t deserve it. So he couldn’t help it as he closed the space between them and threw his arms around Gawain, holding on tight and hiding his face against his shoulder. Rather than shove him away, as he’d been expecting, Gawain returned the embrace like he could tell how much Lancelot needed it.

“Hi,” Gawain laughed, gently smoothing his hands over Lancelot’s back to soothe him. “Is everything alright?”

He was asking Pym over Lancelot’s shoulder as much as he was asking the man himself, but she only shrugged and Lancelot didn’t seem to be in a particularly talkative mood so he just held him until he was ready to step away.

“I’m sorry,” Lancelot mumbled, as he finally managed to tear himself away from Gawain. “I wanted to call. I… I was trying, but I found Pym before I could, and she brought me here.”  
“It’s okay,” Gawain promised. “I’m happy to see you again. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah actually can we talk for one second, Gawain,” Pym interrupted. “Lancelot, sorry, just give us a minute.”

She dragged Gawain off and left him standing there. They were far away enough that he couldn’t hear them speak, but he saw Pym gesturing urgently and Gawain giving him steadily more distraught looks over her shoulder. It was obviously Pym was sharing her concerns, Lancelot just wasn’t sure exactly what they were. As soon as she was done speaking, Gawain rushed back over.

“Are you alright?” he asked insistently.

“Yes,” Lancelot nodded, confused.

Of course he was okay. He’d found his way to Gawain, and he wasn’t thinking about what he would face once he got back to Red House. For as long as he didn’t, he was perfectly alright.

“Do you want to go somewhere,” Gawain asked. “Maybe talk for a while. Except, _fuck_ , I need to pick up Squirrel but-”

“Nimue and I will take care of him for the evening,” Pym interrupted with a grin. “Don’t worry about a thing. Have fun.”

She winked at them both, delighting in quite how easy it was to make them both blush. As she headed back to the train station she turned around to wave and shout back to them.

“Nice to properly meet you, Lancelot.”

Left alone and probably starting to make a scene for Gawain’s coworkers as they left the office, what with the shouting and the hugging and Lancelot’s far-from-usual appearance, Gawain turned to Lancelot and took in those eyes again.

“Hungry?” he asked, hoping he could keep Lancelot for at least a few more hours while they grabbed some food.

Lancelot reached into his pocket and pulled out a slightly squashed Nutri-Grain bar, all the sustenance he’d been sent out with for the day.

“I think we can probably do better than that,” Gawain smiled, already with a place in mind.

“I can’t afford it,” Lancelot mumbled, a little ashamed. He’d never needed money before, but now he felt strange without it when everyone else seemed to rely on it so much.

Pym had mentioned Lancelot’s lack of funds in her short and frantic summary of what she’d gleaned about his life so far, and Gawain didn’t miss a beat. He just took a step closer and nudged Lancelot’s chin up with his the side of his knuckle, gentle and probably too intimate for directly outside his place of work. They were certainly giving his nosier co-workers a show.

“My treat,” he offered. “Do you like Italian?”

Lancelot didn’t know. He wasn’t sure he’d ever had Italian food before – the usual menu at Red House was salad, steamed vegetables and stew, with very little variety, and he had no idea how he felt about anything else when his entire life had consisted of the same meal. But when Gawain took his hand to lead him in the direction of a restaurant he apparently frequented, Lancelot would have tried just about anything.

It felt surprisingly normal. Lancelot didn’t know what he expected, going out for a meal with a man, but it seemed like it should be more momentous. No one was staring, not any more than usual considering Lancelot’s distinctive birthmarks, and nothing felt dark or evil or damning. He was just going out to eat with another man like he did it every day. It was exhilarating.

Lancelot had never eaten in a restaurant so he stayed quiet and observed as Gawain asked for a table for them both and they were led through the cosy little eatery tucked down an alley behind Gawain’s office building. There was a chatty waitress and everything smelled of fresh tomatoes and dough, and it felt weirdly welcoming. And when Gawain pulled out a chair for him when they reached their table, something swooped in Lancelot’s stomach.

“I’m always looking for excuses to come here,” Gawain smiled as he sat down in his own chair. “I hope you like it.”

“I do,” Lancelot promised, and Gawain just laughed.

“You should probably wait to taste the food first,” he pointed out. “And the cocktails. What’s your poison?”

He gestured to the menus that had been laid down in front of them and Lancelot took in the list of drinks. The first thing that hit him were the prices. Father had occasionally trusted him with a few coins to buy a bottle of water during a protest, but he’d never held as much money in his hand as one drink off this menu cost. He couldn’t let Gawain spend that much on him. And besides, alcohol was a drug and drugs were a sin. Except so was being attracted to a man and he was so far gone on that count that there seemed like no way back, so maybe it was alright to give in to another sin and try his first real alcohol, since all the sacramental wine at Red House was non-alcoholic to steer them anyway from transgressions. He was already going to get an intense punishment for every decision he’d already made since waking up; what was one more? But that left him with the decision of which of the many options to choose, and clearly his internal struggle was written across his face because Gawain’s fingers were suddenly resting gently on his wrist, getting his attention.

“Lancelot? It’s okay. If you don’t want a drink, that’s alright,” he said softly. “If you’ve never had one before then I probably wouldn’t recommend it. They’re strong here.”

It was a relief and Lancelot managed a solaced smile and a nod, turning over the menu in his hands and finding himself faced with an entirely new problem. There were an entire page of options, lists of things he’d never even heard of. The choice was overwhelming and the prices were all too high and at Red House he was always just given one meagre plate of mass-cooked, poor quality food and that was all ever got, all he deserved. His hands started to shake.

“Hey, hey, talk to me, what’s wrong? Do you want to leave?” Gawain soothed, his fingers back stroking gently circles over the inside of his wrist.

“Too much,” Lancelot managed, gasping his way through the beginning of a panic attack. Father always said they were a mark of god’s punishment, slowly cutting off his oxygen and accelerating his heart to warn him when he was letting sin into his life.

“Too much money? It’s alright, I promise I can afford it. I want to treat you,” Gawain offered, but he frowned when Lancelot shook his head and tried again. “Too much choice?” That got him a sharp nod. “Okay, here, how about you give me that.”

He took the menu gently out of Lancelot’s hands and he was grateful to see the back of it, snatching his hands back to fist them in the sides of the tablecloth.

“Sorry,” he forced, voiced ragged. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s not your fault. What if you let me choose for you? You don’t have any allergies, or things you don’t like?” Gawain enquired, humming to himself when he got another shake of the head in reply. “Okay, trust me. I’ll pick something you’ll like.”

His cocky grin was rather convincing and Lancelot felt himself relax a little. So long as he didn’t think about the money Gawain was wasting on him, his heartrate began to slow down. He couldn’t stop reliving the feeling of Gawain’s fingertips against his skin, soft and careful, and almost cringed from the blasphemy of his thoughts when they whispered how much it felt like the touch of an angel.

Craving the touch of another man was definitely a sin. He was going to have to start keeping a list of all his transgressions or he was definitely going to have forgotten some of them by the time he had to confess. His usual confession sessions lasted no more than five minutes, consisting of nothing worse than passing thoughts of doubt in his faith or questioning of Father’s message. The past eight hours had contained more sins than his past eight years. Father had certainly been right when he said one sin led to another.

Gawain ordered for them both when the waitress came back and Lancelot purposefully didn’t listen to what was being ordered for him so he couldn’t look up the price and panic about it again. Instead he diverted his attention to the stack of Red House leaflets that he still had with him, resting on the table beside his water glass. They were still wrapped up in the brown paper they had been that morning – he hadn’t handed out a single one.

“Is that book more interesting than me?” Gawain teased as soon as they were left alone again.

“I’m sorry?” Lancelot blinked, confused.

Gawain gestured to the parcel on the table.

“That book. You keep staring at it.”

“It is not a book,” Lancelot said.

Rather than try to explain, he reached out to pull at the string keeping the small parcel together and unfolded the paper to reveal the pile of leaflets. Gawain reached out to take one and he didn’t protest. At least he’d be able to say that he didn’t distribute _most_ of the leaflets in confession, rather than all of them. He certainly didn’t expect him to actually read it.

There was more text than Gawain was willing to waste his time on when he could be focusing on Lancelot, but he skimmed through it and quickly picked up the key points. Everything was a sin. Drugs, alcohol, homosexuality, abortions, contraception, pride, lust, modern technology. It was increasingly clear that Lancelot had been raised in a cult, and that this man, this ‘Father Carden’ who graced the front of the pamphlet with a welcoming smile and who Gawain recognised from Pride, was the ringleader who had everyone convinced that this ‘Red House’ was the way to earn a place in heaven. From the words in the leaflet, breaking any one of the rules they set was a way to earn a ticket to hell.

“Do you really believe all this?” Gawain asked, baffled.

“I...” Lancelot began, about to jump in to his normal affirmations. But he felt happier than he ever had in his life and that was all because he was in Gawain’s company, which was definitely not allowed. It didn’t feel like a sin, didn’t feel like the darkness Father always warned him to turn his back on. “I don’t know.”

“Do you believe you’re damned for going on a date with another man?” Gawain pushed, gentle but persistent.

Lancelot blinked, too surprised to pursue his internal struggle.

“This is a date?” He asked shyly.

Gawain reached across the table and laced his fingers together with Lancelot’s where they’d be tapping skittishly over the tablecloth. He raised an eyebrow, his challenge clear. This was very much a date if Lancelot wanted it to be.

To Lancelot’s credit, he didn’t snatch his hand back. His cheeks flushed and he shot a cautious look around to make sure no one was watching them, but when he’d deemed the current situation free from external threat, he seemed to relax and even went so far as to squeeze Gawain’s fingers. Gawain had never smiled so wildly. It warmed his heart and reassured his worries to see Lancelot confident in himself enough not to pull away. The stoic protester from the morning they’d first met was long gone and this new Lancelot had clearly been waiting impatiently in the wings to be encouraged out. He had a long way to go until he was properly himself, that Gawain didn’t doubt, but he’d taken several huge steps in the right direction.

Gawain kept the conversation light as they waited for their food. As much as he wanted to press on the concerns Pym had raised to him outside, he didn’t want this to feel like an inquisition, but even as he focused on trivial topics Lancelot’s answers still revealed how sheltered his life had been. He didn’t have a favourite film or tv show, he’d never travelled further than walking distance from where he lived, and the only book he’d ever read was the bible he pulled from his pocket in demonstration. It sounded like such an empty life and Gawain’s heart ached more and more with each answer, only exacerbated by how candidly Lancelot shared the information. He didn’t even realise how troubling his words were. Still, Gawain could see his personality shining through the cracks of his Red Brother facade, gentle and passionate and sweet. Plus Pym had mentioned that he’d asked about Squirrel, which Gawain loved.

He wanted to give Lancelot every experience he’d been denied. When he was served a pizza larger than his face, topped with fresh mozzarella and basil, his eyes went wide, like he couldn’t believe it was all for him. His face when he took the first bite was so surprised, so innocent, that Gawain wanted nothing more than to give him simple little moments like that every day of his life so he got to catch up on everything he’d missed out on.

“Good?” he asked with a knowing smirk.

His mouth was too full with a second bite to reply with words, but Lancelot nodded enthusiastically.

“Thank you,” he said as soon as he swallowed.

“I’ll save the ‘I told you so’ for the second date,” Gawain laughed.

Lancelot froze at the words. There couldn’t be a second date. This was a one day lapse, a one day violation of the sacred laws under which he’d lived his entire life before he accepted his punishment, just and earned as it would be, and committed himself back to the Red Brothers. He needed an outlet for the desires that had been building up inside of him and indulging his sinful thoughts was the only way to purge himself of them. This was a onetime thing, regardless of how attractive Gawain was and how he could take Lancelot’s breath away with one touch. He had to go back and he had to confess his sins and he was sure he wouldn’t be allowed out ever again once he did.

It was clear something had shifted. Lancelot was still answering his questions but Gawain could tell he was more reserved, holding things back where before he’d been so endearingly open. He cursed himself for pushing too far but he’d been hoping that their night had been going well enough that Lancelot would like to see it repeated. Perhaps he’d misread things, but the cues of interest had been so obvious that he was sure he hadn’t. Lancelot liked him, so why was he so against a second date?

As soon as he’d finished his food, Lancelot put down his cutlery and cleared his throat.

“I need to go,” he mumbled, not making eye contact.

“No, stay! Please,” Gawain tried to insist, hoping maybe they could get coffee or take a stroll down the river.

He had a terrible feeling that if he watched Lancelot go, he wouldn’t see him again. And that was the last thing he wanted. Selfishly, he didn’t want the night to end, but his concern for Lancelot beat out even that. From what he’d pieced together from Pym and the leaflet and Lancelot himself, his home life was far from idyllic and wasn’t even really much of a home. It didn’t seem like a safe place to send him back to. But Lancelot just shook his head.

“I can’t. They’ll...” he began, but he didn’t want Gawain to know. “I can’t.”

“They’ll what?” Gawain pushed, suddenly serious.

Lancelot cringed under the attention. The longer he stayed out, the more trouble he was going to get in. Father worried. No one had ever done what he’d spent the day doing, but the last Brother to use his freedom while leafleting to stay out longer than allowed and explore the city had been made to kneel on gravel for as long as he’d been away. Lancelot wasn’t naïve enough to believe that he’d be spared the same treatment – every second he spent with Gawain was one he was going to suffer for later. As it should be. But Gawain wouldn’t understand, so he didn’t bother trying to explain.

“Nothing. I’ll just get in trouble,” he mumbled, shoulders hunched.

“You’re a grown man. Stay,” Gawain pushed.

“Gawain, please,” Lancelot sighed. He squeezed his eyes closed and tried to ignore how much he wanted to give in.

It was the first time he’d said the name and Gawain was taken aback by how much he liked hearing it tripping from his lips. The intimacy of it was almost enough for him to give up his attempts to get Lancelot to stay, and the desperate look on the other man’s face went the rest of the way. He understood that Lancelot’s home was an unconventional one and probably a dangerous one, but he couldn’t force an adult not to return to what they knew and trying would only make Lancelot hate him. That was the last thing he wanted and it certainly wasn’t going to encourage him to be honest and forthcoming and seek help if he needed it. He had to trust him.

When the bill came Gawain was careful to keep its total from Lancelot, not wanting him to worry about the money. His job paid him well enough that he could treat an attractive man to a meal every now and then without concern. While Lancelot was distracted by the individually packaged mint that had been brought on the little plate, Gawain pocketed the Red House leaflet he’d been reading; he wanted to do some research. He left a tip and held his arm out to Lancelot, pleasantly surprised when it was taken. Revelling in every second of the contact, he walked him outside.

“Would you permit me to escort you home?” Gawain offered, happy to go as far out of his way it would take, but Lancelot’s eyes went wide.

“No!” he insisted. “Thank you, but no. It’s alright.”  
They weren’t allowed to tell anyone where Red House was. Turning up with someone, with a man he’d let touch him, would put all of the Brothers in danger and earn him an even worse punishment than he was already going to get.

Gawain just nodded. It was wise not to trust a veritable stranger with your address and he understood if Lancelot wanted to keep that close to his chest. He just had one last thing to ask, one end-of-date ritual that he hadn’t partaken in himself for months and that he would count himself extremely lucky to be allowed to have with Lancelot. He could practically hear Pym calling him a sap.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked, a little bashfully.

Lancelot’s breath caught in his throat, hit with an overwhelming wave of desire that he hadn’t even known he was capable of. He wanted Gawain, wanted him so much it hurt, and kissing him was the most enticing sin to ever be dangled in front of him. It went against everything he’d ever been taught, but it was so tempting.  
“I don’t know,” he forced, his insides warring against each other and churning up his stomach under the hooves of their cavalries.

“Have you been kissed before?” Gawain asked, chasing a hunch. He wasn’t judging, just curious.  
“No,” Lancelot blushed, ducking his head shyly, but Gawain just nudged his chin up. He had nothing to be ashamed about.

Gawain knew he was new to all this and that he had to tread lightly if he wanted to encourage rather than spook, to make sure everything was on Lancelot’s terms.  
“Do you mind if I’m the first?” he asked, pretty sure of the answer but needing to be sure it wasn’t just hope blinding him.  
“I want you to be,” Lancelot admitted, his blush spreading down his neck and disappearing under the neckline of his shirt. Gawain wanted nothing more than to follow it and see how far down it went, but it wasn’t the time or the place.  
“Now?” he pushed gently.

Lancelot considered it for a moment. He wanted it, but he then imagined confessing it to Father. The disappointment on his face would hurt too much, far more than the lashes he would be prescribed as punishment in an attempt to purify his soul. It was one step too far.  
“No. I’m sorry. I can’t,” Lancelot whispered sadly.

Gawain just pulled him into an embrace instead.

“That’s okay, I can wait,” he promised. “You’re worth it.”

Lancelot breathed him in, relaxing into the feeling of warmth and security. There was practically nothing he wouldn’t give to stay like that forever, but if he succumbed to it in this life then he was dooming his immortal soul to know nothing but fire and pain. He had to suffer in this life to purify himself. Eventually he squirmed away, and Gawain didn’t fight him.

“Here,” Gawain offered, pulling a £20 note out of his pocket. It was more than enough to get Lancelot home and maybe, he dared to hope, back to his office one day soon. “Do you remember how you got here? Will you be able to get home?”

“Yes,” Lancelot promised.

He lied. He had no idea how Pym had navigated the underground train system, but he didn’t plan on getting back on it. Walking back to Red House would take much longer and he certainly didn’t know the way, but it seemed preferable to engaging in the forbidden activity of taking public transport. Hopefully Father would see it the same way. Lancelot would press the note Gawain had handed him beside the phone number in his bible and one day, when he could bring himself to get rid of it, pass it on to the poor and needy. He couldn’t waste it on himself.  
“Okay, good,” Gawain nodded slowly. “I… Can I see you again? Please. I couldn’t stop thinking about you the first time and now it’s just going to be worse.”

He knew he sounded desperate and that it wasn’t know how you were supposed to act at the end of a first date if you wanted a second one, but Lancelot didn’t seem like the average man and it seemed like a better decision to lay everything out on the table. He pushed it just a little further.  
“You know where I work. I finish the same time every day and I will always, _always_ , want to see you. Tomorrow or next week or whenever. You don’t have to promise me anything, I just need you to know it’s an open invitation, okay?”

Lancelot watched him for a long moment, carefully committing the image to memory. He never wanted to forget Gawain, even if he knew he couldn’t let himself come back to this place or contact him again. He was going to spend his whole life atoning for this one evening. If he never got to feel this happy again, he was going to risk one last sin and he quickly leaned forward and pressed his lips to Gawain’s cheek, so softly and fleetingly that Gawain would later be questioning if it had even happened. When he drew back and saw the awestruck and enamoured look on his face, he knew the action had been misunderstood to be a promise of things yet to come rather than the goodbye it was and, before he could further drag Gawain down into sin with him, Lancelot turned and fled into the growing darkness of the streets, weaving between people so there was no chance of him being followed. Father would be waiting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Carden's anti public transport because he doesn't want the Red Brothers knowing how to get far away if they want to leave, just in case you were wondering :')
> 
> There will be at least one more chapter to this :)

**Author's Note:**

> I have a whole Modern AU in my brain for these two now :') Also Pymue needs more love.


End file.
